


Clock's Ticking

by reiley



Series: Dead Man [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reiley/pseuds/reiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i></i><b>Martha:</b> You soaked up a colossal amount of energy, but… It’s dissipating now.<br/><b>Owen:</b> Doesn’t sound good.<br/><b>Martha:</b> …It could take thirty years for it to die out completely.<br/><b>Owen:</b> Or thirty minutes.
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clock's Ticking

**Author's Note:**

> _Italicized dialogue_ lifted from ‘Dead Man Walking’ to set the scene.
> 
> originally posted: 03/04/08

* * *

__**Martha:** You soaked up a colossal amount of energy, but… It’s dissipating now.  
 **Owen:** Doesn’t sound good.  
 **Martha:** …It could take thirty years for it to die out completely.  
 **Owen:** Or thirty minutes. 

His clock is winding down. How long will it really take? The others have pushed this to the backs of their minds. What use is worrying about something you have no control over? Better to focus on finding solutions for problems that can be solved. Owen, reinstated as a full member of the team, does his best to keep himself occupied with the tasks he’s allowed to take on.

Today has been unbearably quiet. Gwen’s been out doing last minute wedding planning and Jack and Toshiko have started up a routine of going out to lunch, just the two of them, at least once a week, or whenever the lack of impending doom allows. Ianto is finishing up cataloguing the new bits and bobs that have drifted through the rift recently - things he hasn’t had time for the last couple weeks. The last few haven’t been checked over by Jack, yet, so Ianto marks them off on his clipboard and writes out a note for the Captain. He leaves it on the desk in Jack’s office and makes his way over to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.

On his way, he stops, stands perfectly still. The clinking and clanking noises that have been coming from the autopsy bay all morning are curiously absent. The hub is eerily quiet. Slowly, Ianto turns and walks in that direction. Out of habit, he places his hand on the firearm in his holster, ready if necessary. Stepping up to the railing, he sees several shiny, glinting, metallic tools scattered about the tiled floor and the body of Owen Harper slumped over the table.

In a flash, Ianto is down the stairs, calling, “Owen!” He reaches for the figure, feeling his neck for a pulse. But, of course, it is absent, the skin cold and dry. He removes his hand, hovering over the doctor’s head. He whispers, “Owen?” He lowers his hand to the shoulder and shakes, gently. “Owen?”

Running his fingers through his hair, Ianto turns away, biting his lip hard. He’d already died, they’d been expecting this, it shouldn’t be so shocking. But they’d never had time to grieve. Looking down at the pale face, one side is pressed to the cold metal table, the other up, exposed, one, mud-colored eye staring out ahead. Slowly, Ianto reaches his hand to touch the cold cheek, to close the unseeing eye.

Owen’s body jolts up and yells, “Aaaahh! Gotcha!”

Ianto jerks back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and slams into the wall behind him. He stares in shock at the reanimated corpse. _Again._ It is doubled over, laughing, holding its sides, for he will no longer think of _that_ as Owen. Never. “You sick bastard!”

“Oh, Christ, you should have seen the look on your face!” Owen is still bent at the waist, laughing so hard tears would be streaming out of his eyes if they could. He straightens up when a tube of petroleum gel hits him on the shoulder. “Oi! Watch it! I don’t heal, remember?”

“That was not funny.” Ianto pulls at his suit jacket, turns and stomps back up the stairs, muttering under his breath in Welsh.

“Oh, c’mon!” Owen calls after him. “Dead man’s gotta get his kicks somehow!” He picks up the tube and flings it at the retreating figure. “Bloody Welsh. No sense of humor.” What else is he supposed to do for fun around here? He busies himself putting things away, chuckling every now and then.

A moment later, Ianto appears at the top of the stairs again. “Quick. Get back on the table. Gwen’s on her way down.” He grabs the tube of gel and hurries off back into the main part of the hub.

Owen grins and gets back into position. Faintly, he hears Gwen enter and Ianto greet her.

“How are the wedding plans going?”

“Bloody hell, if I have to listen to people bickering about seating arrangements ever again… Could you do us favor? I could murder a cup of coffee right now.”

“No problem. Uh, Owen left this lying about. Can you take it back down to him for me? Thanks.”

Setting his face into a relaxed pose, Owen inwardly smirks. Showtime.

* * *


End file.
